


After Dinner Delight

by misura



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Dinner, Multi, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 06:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14254530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: "I thought we agreed to no torture after five."





	After Dinner Delight

"Now there's the smell of authentic Russian cuisine we all know and dread."

Illya frowned at him, which was expected - national pride being a thing with Peril, in spite of all of Napoleon's efforts to reason and/or seduce him out of it.

Gaby frowning at him was less expected, although it turned out she apparently had a soft spot for tall and blond freaks of nature, as well as a natural inclination to suspect good-looking, smooth-talking Americans of never saying or doing anything without ulterior motives. (Napoleon found no fault with the former, although the latter occasionally proved a tad inconvenient.)

"Sit," said Illya. "Eat."

Napoleon sat. "I thought we agreed to no torture after five."

Gaby kicked him under the table. She smiled at him over it, though, so Napoleon was willing to call that one a draw and let it go.

"Is good, Russian food," Illya said, filling up a plate. "Put hair on chest."

"Why, Peril, I had no idea you cared so much about the state of my chest."

The filled plate, alas, turned out to be his. At moments like these, Napoleon perceived the wisdom of people getting a dog.

Napoleon glanced at Gaby, who had clearly gotten to fill her own plate. "Although I must say, I'm not at all sure I approve of your sense of aesthetics."

"For men, hair on chest," Illya said, filling up another plate. "For women, good health and strong bones."

"I see. One of those mysterious difference between the sexes. Convenient." To get things over with quickly, or to try to draw things out long enough to be excused? Both strategies carried their own risks, although finishing quickly and being rewarded with a second helping seemed somewhat of a worst-case scenario, the equivalent of executing missions quickly and efficiently only to be rewarded by getting even more of them.

Illya shrugged. He was eating with gusto, proving once again that he was something other than human. Napoleon didn't think it was a Russian thing, either; he'd met plenty of them. Some of his most successful missions had been Russians - live ones, although often less so once he was done with them.

"You're letting your food go cold," Gaby said. "You shouldn't."

Napoleon wondered if she'd switched sides on him and if so, if it had been out of pity or if he might dare hope she'd been inspired by a slightly less noble sentiment.

"Unlike some, I like to take the time to savor my meals."

"There is plenty more left in pan," Illya said. "Please. No need to nibble like mouse."

"Quality over quantity, Peril."

Gaby smirked. She'd cleared about three-quarters of her own plate, which was respectable. She was also sipping wine in between bites, which seemed worth a try. Napoleon tried never to get so drunk that it influenced his usual impeccable taste and inexhaustible charm, but desperate times called for desperate measures (as proven by his current circumstances and company).

"Why choose when you can have both?" Illya said. His plate looked about ready for a second helping.

"You know how much I enjoy being contrary."

"Ah." Illya smiled. It did interesting things to his face. Napoleon darkly suspected that if Illya were ever to be convinced to go through life smiling, it would make it very difficult to stick around him and still preserve his reputation as an incorrigible womanizer. He'd simply be reduced to the role of wingman, or possibly bodyguard, given the interest Illya had thus far displayed in getting more closely acquainted with the fairer sex.

Gaby being the exception, of course, although even there, Napoleon found it hard to detect much progress, or even to gauge who was pursuing who.

"I do know, yes. So. No dessert until you have cleared plate. Fair, yes?"

"Sure, assuming I'm actually interested in dessert," said Napoleon. "A bit motherly, though."

Illya chuckled. "You act like spoilt child, I act like stern but loving mother."

"What about Miss Teller?"

Illya gave the question far more consideration than Napoleon felt warranted. Then again, this entire conversation might only be intended to distract him from actually tasting what he was putting in his mouth. "Father or elder sister," Illya decided. "Fond, but not too fond."

Napoleon looked at Gaby. "I think 'Mother' here loves you a lot more than she loves me."

"We are married, after all," said Gaby.

"I'm not sure that it's legal for a mother to marry her own daughter."

Gaby rolled her eyes, which was fair enough.

"Few more bites," Illya said. "Almost there."

"How's this: you tell me what's for dessert, I decide whether or not that's worth my while."

"No." Not even a moment's hesitation. Stern but loving, indeed.

"A hint?"

"You will like it," Illya said. "This, I promise you."

Gaby - well, that was certainly not another kick. Napoleon had indulged in that type of purely physical flirtation himself on occasion, although not usually before dessert. It was hard to backpedal, if it turned out the object of your affection was less amorously inclined.

Options ... well, her suddenly having shifted her affections seemed highly unlikely. Napoleon was no stranger to self-flattery, but he tried to mix it with a healthy dash of self-knowledge. Thus, the smooth foot sliding up his leg did not represent what it would seem to represent at first sight.

Which left ...

"Does this type of dessert involve a bed?" Unlikely, but neither impossible nor unappealing, so best eliminated quickly, before the idea could actually fire up his imagination.

Gaby was a very attractive woman, obviously. Illya was Illya.

"Do you want it to, Cowboy?" Illya went for a third helping. Napoleon decided that it might be time to stop marveling at the miracle of nature that was Illya Kuryakin and simply accept that it defied all rational explanation and expectations.

Gaby smirked at him. Napoleon tried to think of any woman in his acquaintance who might smirk at him mere moments after he'd received what boilt down to a proposition from her ... lover? colleague with benefits? Russian boytoy?.

"I don't know - can I sleep on it and get back to you on that in the morning?"

"Of course." Illya's expression was hard to read. Neither disappointed nor surprised, Napoleon thought.

"Actually, that was a joke."

"American humor. Very amusing," Illya said.

"You know, if you're not going to appreciate my sense of humor at least a little, this thing between us is just doomed from the start."

"You don't think it's doomed anyway?" Gaby asked. "I never thought you were an optimist, Mr Solo."

"I live to delight and surprise," said Napoleon.

"I thought it was to get rich and be in a position to tell your government to, as you put it, 'get stuffed'."

Napoleon shrugged. "Priorities change. Speaking of which, I'm done. Shall we?"

"Ah," Illya said. "Dessert first, then nap. No strenuous activities after dinner. Is bad for digestion."

Napoleon blinked. Gaby's foot abruptly stopped doing what it had been doing - and quite pleasantly, too, Napoleon might add.

Illya grinned. "See? Russian humor. Much better than American."


End file.
